


Lay Next to Me

by acertainheight



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:58:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acertainheight/pseuds/acertainheight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabela tastes like saltwater, sunlight, and three long years of waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Next to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Set in early Act II - just a silly little first kiss one-shot. I wanted to do something more with this but I couldn't quite make it work...so I just wanted to post it and move on to the next thing.
> 
> Title from City & Colour's Weightless: _Do you know the consequence that comes with having such confidence? Holding all the weight in my life, then you turn and walk away from me._

“I always thought we'd be drunk.”

Marian hears her own voice and doesn't recognize it. Too high and too fast, unfamiliar and embarrassing. She draws a shaky breath, tries to steady herself, and forces the words out through still-burning lips. “I mean, simple odds. We're drunk most of the time these days.”

This time she does better: There's almost a touch of wry humor to her voice, lurking somewhere beyond the shock. She clears her throat and presses her lips together, casting a dazed glance down at her fingers tangled in the fabric of Isabela's shirt, as if she had forgotten they were there. Her legs tremble; the dirty wall against her back and her white-knuckled grip on Isabela are the only things keeping her upright.

When she looks back up, the other woman is staring at her as if she had just announced she wanted to convert to the Qun, brows raised and lips parted in bewildered amusement. Her eyes glint, as rich a gold as the necklace at her throat. “Are you sure you're _not_ drunk?”

“You took me—” Another pause, another long breath. With every exhalation, she can feel herself returning to her body. Some last remnant of sanity perseveres. “You took me by surprise.”

It _had_ been a surprise, right in the middle of a sentence (only a minute later and now Hawke can hardly remember what she was talking about, though she knew it had been something spectacularly boring). In a blink, she had been pressed up against a Lowtown alley wall, interrupted by Isabela's mouth on hers and the sharp whisper of _oh, shut up_. Isabela had tasted like saltwater and sunlight and three long years of waiting, and before half a second had passed, Hawke had mangled the kiss with her open-mouthed disbelief.

“I hope so,” Isabela says, “or else you're absolutely terrible at this.”

Hawke flushes at the taunt, a retort leaping to the tip of her tongue. Before she can speak, though, Isabela silences her—shoves her back against the wall, fingers digging into her hips, lips against the corner of her mouth.

“You'd better redeem yourself. I haven't waited this long just to be disappointed.”

When she speaks, her voice is low with a hunger that makes Hawke's heart forget to beat, and for once, Marian manages to resist the urge to fire off a reply. Instead she gives in to a far more powerful temptation. The slightest movement, a tilt of her head, and it is enough. Their lips meet with a hitch of breath.

Trapped there between the cold of the wall and the warmth of the other woman, suspended in time for the briefest of infinities, Hawke can't fathom a universe where anything exists apart from Isabela's body pressed against hers. Nothing else has ever mattered, could have ever possibly mattered. Of that she is certain. She pushes against Isabela with a desperation born from a long, lonely wait, and Isabela pushes back twice as hard, refusing to relinquish an ounce of control. _So this is drowning_ , Hawke thinks, letting the wave crash into her. She kisses Isabela like her life depends on it; she's half-certain that it does. When they finally break apart, drawing deep gulps of air, neither can remember how to speak. The world comes to a slow, grinding halt around them.

At last, Isabela finds her voice: “Well. That was better.”

“It was less of a surprise that time around.”

“We could do it a third time, if you'd like.” Her hands linger beneath Hawke's tunic, and she idly traces a finger along the ridge of her ribcage.

“I suppose I could manage.” Hawke meets Isabela's eyes, catches the subtle quirk of her smile, and lets a smile fill her face in return. She feels entirely herself again. More than she has in a long time. “We might want to find a better location than the darkest alley in Lowtown, though. I'd hate to be murdered with my pants around my ankles.”

“Is that the sort of thing you have to worry about when you wear pants?” Isabela inquires. She looks up from beneath long lashes, eyes bright with pleasure and anticipation, and gestures out of the alley. “To the Hanged Man?”

Three years of warnings, three years of _be careful around the pirate_ and _I wouldn't trust her if I were you_ and _don't do anything we'll all regret—_ and yet Hawke cannot tear her eyes away from Isabela, cannot stop the pounding of her heart. She cannot drag her hopes back down there they belong.

There are some mistakes, she decides, that are worth making.

“To the Hanged Man.”


End file.
